


Throwing Purls Among Swine

by Velerian



Series: Kinkmeme prompts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I Don't Even Know, In which Sherlock has a secret obsession, Knitting, Knitting porn, M/M, Porn, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velerian/pseuds/Velerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to display his affection through craftiness, but it doesn't necessarily go to plan.</p><p>Prompt fill here:<br/>http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5880.html?thread=21817080#t21817080</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throwing Purls Among Swine

It had been two days since the events of the Blind Banker, and Sherlock had spent most of it silently sulking, wandering in and out of his room, staring at the telly, or staring at John. Now John would readily admit that he was not as observant as his flatmate, but really, this was going on far enough. Sherlock had been sitting on the sofa for an hour, staring at John intently as he meandered through the sitting room, measuring him up for God knows what reason. 

“Sherlock-”

“Yes, I would like your measurements, actually. There is measuring tape in the cabinet above your head.” John sighs in a familiar, put upon way as he reaches for the cabinet door, roots about the rattling mess, and extricates an embarrassingly pink string of plastic.

“This it?”

“Of course, now bring the tape around your chest directly beneath the armpits, read me the number. Then find the circumference of both arms and your neck.” John dutifully read the numbers as Sherlock closed his eyes and brought his fingers to his lips. “Two centimeters off, check your chest measurement again,” His eyes flicked open, boring into John’s soul in a decidedly, pleasantly, disconcerting way. John’s hands slipped ever so slightly, and of course it was _John_ who was wrong about his own measurements. Obviously Sherlock only errs once in a blue moon.

“Excellent,” and with that he sequestered himself in his room and John saw neither hide nor hair of the enigmatic genius the rest of the day. That night, however, was a different story.

He had had another nightmare, of heat and the tang of metal on your tongue as he weaves through gunfire and pulls one of his boys out of the rang of enemy Kalashnikovs. The moment he woke, tangled and thrashing against his sheets, he knew that trying to fall back asleep would be a very bad idea indeed. So instead he putters downstairs, careful of the left of center creak on the second to last step. 

Normally he wouldn’t care, but Sherlock wasn’t waxing romantic downstairs, so John was naturally disinclined to disturb him. John was almost certain he would find his friend sprawled dramatically on the couch, head lolling off one arm and one leg sprawled haphazardly over the other arm and the other God knows where this time. One day, John had just sat in his chair, wondering how the man had managed to twist one arm behind his back, the other thrown palm up on the table with one leg tucked beneath the sofa up to his knee, while the other hooked over the back. 

Instead Sherlock was hunched over something, sitting in John’s chair. Oh God, John thought, the night time experiments were always the most ghastly.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing?” he snapped, trying to prepare his tired mind for the acerbic reply. Sherlock froze, like a child caught in the act, turning his head slowly look at John. For a moment, they just stared at each other, one in reprimand, the other in shock. “Sherlock, it’s three in the morning. If you’re doing something awful in my chair, could it at least wait until morning?” There was an edge of pleading that shouldn’t be there, not when dealing with Sherlock Holmes, but it was early and John just wanted a cuppa and a few moments staring out of the window. He strode past his friend, making it to the kitchen without tripping over something. It was a small victory, but one he would take, gladly.

“Perhaps you should speak with your therapist about these night terrors instead of inflicting your sour mood on an innocent party,” Sherlock’s pout was palpable even without visual confirmation. 

John snorted, “Innocent?” he muttered derisively. “Innocent as a cat sitting in the empty bird cage.”

“So you’re nightmares include me?” He sounded genuinely perplexed, and John ignored the slight pang in his heart at his tone. 

“No, of course not. Just, the idea of _you_ ever being innocent…that’s right up there with seeing you doing the dishes or mending your own trousers. Impossible.” The water was nearly boiling and John was already relaxing into the familiar routine. 

“I have done the dishes, last week actually.” Sherlock sniffed.

“After I left them there for three days and stole your violin.” John pulled two mugs from the cabinet.

“Yes, that was rather cruel of you, wasn’t it?” He was up and moving now, fiddling with his project before stuffing it in the drawer beneath the hanging gnu skull. “I’ll take my tea with one sugar, John.” 

John placed the cup of tea into his friend’s awaiting grasp with a nod but stayed standing. Normally, he wouldn’t involve himself with Sherlock’s experiments, but this one had seemed suspiciously…fluffy. The warning “John,” from behind him came too late. 

“What’s this then?” John asked, gingerly taking the soft cabled mass out of the desk. “Where did you get…” Then he realized it was only half complete. He goggled at the thin whip cord with stoppers at the raw edge and the silver needles tucked into a similarly light blue ball of yarn. “Sherlock-”

“Is this a problem?” Sherlock asked, voice directly beside his ear. John didn’t bother to jump, Sherlock had surprised him so often he would have been disappointed if you didn’t try to unseat him.

“No, it’s fine. Really. I just never took you for a…knitter.” Sherlock was peeking over John’s shoulder to stare at his own handiwork.

“It is a useful occupation for the hands, when the mind has much better things to dwell upon.”

“So the scarves, they’re yours?” Sherlock snorted scathingly.

“Of course, you should see my sock collection.” John chuckled lightly at the proud pronouncement.

“I’m sure they’re lovely, Sherlock,” he assured his friend.

“Come on then, I make a new pair each season to match my mood and the projected weather patterns,” he said, reaching around and reverently putting his current project on an empty surface. He grabbed John’s hand and tugged him into his room.

John was surprised to say the least when he finally got a good look at Sherlock’s bedroom. For one, it was scrupulously clean. The clutter shied away from the doorway like deer during hunting season. There were bookcases crammed into ever available inch of wall space, even over the bed. If John were to guess, they were probably ordered by ISBN number or something similarly absurd. Sherlock opened his closet (which John hadn’t even realized was a closet until the bookcase stopped moving) and smiled proudly. The other side of the door was similarly decorated with skeins of thread and unspun wads of material in what looked like a plastic shoe rack. The inside of the closet was packed with clear drawers filled with _even more_ yarn. At the very top, Sherlock pulled out a large box and placed it lovingly on his bed, lifting the lid with care. John’s eyes widened at the sheer volume.

“How long have you been knitting?”

“Since university. Everything was so _dull_ after they took my drugs away, you see. I had to find some way to entertain myself.” He picked up a slightly lumpy pair of green socks. “70% Acrylic I’m afraid. I was rather short on cash of course.” He picked up another, shimmering violet pair. “100% bamboo, hand spun and pleated with silver thread. Last year, fall.” John goggled at it all until Sherlock grabbed his hand. “Isn’t it delightfully cool and smooth against the skin? Winter of 2001 was a particularly nice Merino and baby Alpaca bulky weight.” He placed one pale ivory against John’s cheek. 

“S-so you knit socks and scarves? What were you making tonight?” He cursed himself, now was most emphatically not the time to note the softness of his friend’s, _friend’s,_ expression and the gentleness he suddenly seemed capable of.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he pouted. “But I suppose that is a lost cause. I was making a sweater.”

“For me?” John was a little dumbfounded. Really? Sherlock was making a sweater for him? 

“Yes, of course for you, John. Do you think I am completely incapable of appreciating your oftentimes invaluable assistance?” John’s eyes strayed, if only to escape receiving the most concentrated, _Sherlockian_ stare possible. He caught sight of a pair of striped brown and tan gloves on Sherlock’s bedside table.

“Did you just finish those?” he asked awkwardly. 

“Of course,” Sherlock answered in irritation, “I needed to finish them before I began your project.”

“How did you make them?” he was admiring them from afar before Sherlock closed his expansive sock collection and plucked them from his bedside. He then launched into an in depth explanation of circular needles, cordage, and the _Magic Loop_ method, but John was just staring at the man’s hands and they twirled and tittered over the shaded gloves. Suddenly he noticed something.

“Those are too small for you, Sherlock.” It felt silly to say it, but blurt it out he did. Maybe he could blame it on the insomnia?

“Spot on, John. I wondered when you would catch on,” he tutted, grabbing John’s hand and encasing it in the fur of specially bred New Zealand sheep who lived on diets of beer and pre chewed roughage. “You love them.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do, you’ve outdone yourself,” he was not too busy staring at his hand to see the gleeful, slightly mischievous look cross his friend’s face.

“Not yet.” And John found himself suddenly pounced on, pulled onto the bed, and pinned beneath his wiry friend.

“You’re socks-”

“Hang the socks, I can reorganize them later,” and as if to make a point, he upset the case with his legs, showering the both of them with argyle and angora. “We are discussing your rather _interesting_ reaction to my private hobby. You find it fascinating, interesting, dare I say it, _scintillating_ , my dear Doctor.” John stopped trying to wriggle out of the sea of socks and Sherlock suddenly.

They stayed like that until Sherlock’s patience ran out twenty four seconds later. He kissed John gently, reveling in the feeling of such pleasant lips against his own. John was stunned, of course, but that did nothing to curb his enthusiasm for snogging in the least. He arched into the man above him, grasping for a handful of hair or shirt to keep a hold of the excitable consulting detective. 

“John,” Sherlock rumbled, and John was lost. He tugged off the genius’ sleeping shirt and flipped Sherlock onto the bed, sending yet more socks to the floor and beside them.

“God, say that again, and I’ll die,” he growled.

“Une petite mort, s’il vous plait,” was the waspish, if slightly breathy reply.

“Bien sûr, mon ami.” John panted back, surprising Sherlock most delightfully.

“Tomorrow, when Lestrade arrives with some infantile problem for me to solve, we should insist on speaking to him only in French. He hates the-” Sherlock is interrupted by a hand reaching into his bottoms for his cock.

“No plotting in bed,” John ordered, and Sherlock whimpered in agreement, convulsively grasping at the multitude of craftiness with those sinfully long fingers of his. John released him to shuck off his shirt and for Sherlock to shimmy out of his bottoms. They snogged madly, clicking teeth and mapping each other’s mouths with the excitement that comes with learning a new lover’s body for the first time.

Of course, they didn’t just snog. John had caught sight of a lone blue and silver sock next to his lover’s gorgeous locks and smiled.

“John, ohh. Don’t stop that, John. I quite like it,” Sherlock purred as the cool, smooth fabric traveled up and down the length of his cock. His left hand, the gloved one, gently traces one of those dangerous cheekbones, and Sherlock is a shuddering moaning mess. Somehow, John’s bottoms end up on the floor along with a few more socks and a pillow. Sherlock had sent it sailing into his closet for no reason John’s lusty brain could make out.

They ground against each other to the point of pain, panting and whispering alternating sweet (from John) and incredibly naughty (from Sherlock) things into each other’s ears. When they came, spurting and shuddering in unrestrained delight, John collapsed onto his flat mate bonelessly.

There was a good ten minutes of silence, where Sherlock absently stroked John’s hair and John drifted between asleep and awake. “You’re going to have to dry clean all my projects now that you’ve inundated them in ejaculate, John,” drawled Sherlock.

John smacked him lightly on the head and slept peacefully for the first time in ages.


End file.
